


To Hell with Us All

by transfixeddream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extended scene from 5.17 - 99 Problems: Sam goes back to the bar.</p><p>Also posted <a href="http://transfixeddream.livejournal.com/89167.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Hell with Us All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_blindfold for the request of end of the world, why-the-fuck-not-sex. Preferably involving the bartop in some way.

By the time Sam exits the bar, the moon's hanging low in the sky, half covered by clouds. The wind's a slow, soft breeze, cooler than the already frigid air, and it creeps under the collar of his jacket and chills him to the bone. Fucking Minnesota. Part of him wants to go back inside, have Paul pour him another whiskey to warm him back up, but he pushes the thought away. His breath comes out as puffs of vapor, dissipating into the air as he starts the walk back to the motel.

He's not even past the parking lot when the thought of the motel loses any of the lingering appeal it had. Dean's gotta be waiting for him, annoyed that it's nearing the town's curfew, even though he knows it's a total crap rule to begin with, and Sam shouldn't even be thinking about going anywhere but back there. Still, he pauses, running a hand through his hair before making a split-second decision. He blows out another shaky breath and turns around, heads back in where he just came from.

The bar's warmth invades him immediately; it pushes out the cold and relaxes his body, a welcoming heat surrounding him. His steps sound remarkably loud on the hardwood floors as he nears the bar, the familiar scent of beer and nuts filling his lungs as he gets closer. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach, something he can't quite place, but he shakes it off quickly and squares his shoulders.

Paul's wiping out a mug that Sam's sure wasn't dirty to begin with, eyes cast down and focused on something else entirely. He looks up at Sam with a raised eyebrow once Sam's right up at the bar, cloth pausing in the mug before starting up again--smooth, firm swipes of off-white against the glass. Sam's lips twitch into something apologetic as he sits back down on the stool he vacated five minutes ago.

"Thought you were heading back," Paul says slowly, a faint trickle of curiosity in his words as he watches Sam's face.

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the stool beside him. He runs his hand along the surface of the bar top, feels the wood underneath the worn finish scratch at his palm. He's not going to try and offer an explanation when he's not sure why he came back himself. Instead he shrugs again, glances at Paul and asks, "Can I get another one?"

Paul doesn't answer right away, chooses to keep watching him; Sam resists the urge to squirm. Finally, Paul sets the mug and cloth down. "Yeah, sure," he says eventually, turning around to scan his inventory. He bends down, shirt riding up a little, and then straightens up quickly, sets a bottle of tequila and two Sam Adams in front of Sam. "Tequila good?"

"Tequila's good," Sam says, even though he'd rather whiskey. _Winchesters don't turn down free liquor, Sammy,_ Dean would tell him. "And the beers?"

A casual nod and then Paul says, "Need a chaser." He grabs two shot glasses, fills them both and pushes one towards Sam before picking up his own. He tips it slightly, self-deprecating smile spread out on his lips. "To the end of the world."

Sam wants to say that the world isn't going to end, that he and Dean will make sure that doesn't happen. But the alcohol that's already in his system helps numb the need to make people see that it's not a lost cause, not yet. It helps his blood flow a little easier, even makes it easier to doubt mankind winning, too.

It makes it easier to say, "To the end of the world," before tossing the shot back. It burns like liquid fire down his throat, and Sam grimaces; he's never really been a fan of tequila.

Paul's watching him when he opens his eyes. "Got some limes somewhere, if you want 'em," he says.

"Nah." Sam looks up to see the bare threads of a smirk on his face, realizes when Paul says _want_ , he means _need_. He takes a drink of beer. "No," he repeats, slower. "I'm good."

Paul shrugs, smirk still there as he takes a swallow of beer. He raps his knuckles against the bar top. "Alright, suit yourself."

Sam is focusing on the glasses, on Paul's fingers holding it in place as the amber liquid fills it once more, when he hears, "You know, I'm glad you came back."

His eyes shoot up and then over, to see that Paul's moved to the stool next to him. "Yeah?"

Nodding, Paul tosses the shot back, hissing faintly after it's gone down. He scrunches his face up as he sets it down. "Yeah, man. Gotta say, drinking alone? Pretty fuckin' pathetic."

Sam's lips twitch and he looks down. He turns the shot glass on the bar and pretends to focus on the tequila swirling inside. Finally, he glances back at Paul--wonders if it's just the crappy bar lighting or the alcohol that is making his eyes look like that, pupils larger than life and inviting all kinds of trouble.

"That the only reason?" he hazards without really thinking. Maybe it's the alcohol in his system, but his face feels hot, and his dick feels too snug in his jeans.

Paul laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners as a smirk plays on his lips. He looks at Sam, as if he's trying to weigh his options; trying to get in his head before he answers. "Nah, s'not the only reason," he says finally, straightening up. "Way I see it, you and me? We're just sitting here, drinking a li'l--and we're goin' to Hell for it, just 'cause some freaks with wings say we're not allowed. Depressing way to end up in the pit, I've gotta say."

Sam nods, sucks the taste of beer off his teeth as he considers it. "Angels ruled out three things--no point in going to Hell for doin' just one."

"Yeah. Exactly."

Paul says it softly, corner of his mouth twitching up. He runs his tongue over his lips and leans on the bar, hands clasped together loosely. He's quiet for a long moment, looking at the wall of the bar, and it feels like an hour's past before he huffs out a short laugh and breaks the silence.

He turns on his stool until he's facing Sam's side, legs spread apart, and Sam can't help but glance down and catch the outline of cock through Paul's jeans. Paul nods towards the shot still between Sam's fingers. "You gonna drink that?"

Sam shakes his head before Paul's even finished asking. "Nah, I'm not," he says, pushing the tequila glass away. Sam presses down on the bar top and slides off the stool, so he's looking down at Paul.

There's a smile on Paul's face as he follows suit and stands, and Sam doesn't bother waiting for him to say anything, just grips him by the shoulder and pulls, until Paul's pressed tight against him and the edge of the bar digs into his lower back. The scent of his cologne fills Sam's nostrils, faint traces of spice that smells so goddamn good.

Paul laughs and mutters, "Subtle," but his hands are already settling on Sam.

"No reason to be," Sam tries, but he groans when Paul's hands tug at his ass cheeks until their groins are against each other. Sam already knew that Paul was hard, but it's a whole different thing to feel the thick press of cock against his own. Paul grinds down, and Sam rocks his hips to the same rhythm, feels the pull of pleasure, and his dick throbs harder when Paul lets out a low, guttural groan.

Sam's fingers slip under the worn material of Paul's button down, grunts against him. "Hey, c'mon, man, just--"

Paul gets the idea and lets go of Sam, backs up just enough so Sam can undo the buttons. His fingers move at a frantic pace, pushing the buttons through the holes. One breaks off but Sam can't bring himself to care with the blood pounding in his ears. Paul takes over after Sam finishes and the last button comes undone, shucking off his shirt as Sam undoes his own. He goes slower with his, because if Dean sees him coming back with missing buttons he's going to start asking questions. He keeps an eye on Paul, watches him pull off his grey undershirt to reveal smooth, tanned skin that Sam just wants to bite.

"C'mon, Sam," Paul says, and that right there--the teasing and the promise, the pure fucking _intent_ behind those words--that's what makes Sam think _fuck it all_ , and he just pulls the two bottom buttons off before tugging the material off and tossing it wherever.

Paul's suddenly back in his space, rough hands running down his stomach. "Shit, man," he says, huffing a laugh. "Fuckin' brick wall." Sam wants to tell him to stop looking, stop touching and just fucking _do_ something, but then Paul's leaning in close and biting down on his collarbone and Sam can't help the groan that comes out. Paul chuckles against him, warm breath against his skin, and right now, it's Sam's favorite sound.

Sam looks down and hones in on Paul's cock, pressed tight against the denim. He presses one hand to it, feels the heat and the rigid thickness against his palm. Paul hisses and pulls back, and Sam gets the overwhelming need of skin on skin, to feel Paul wrapped around his fingers. He unbuttons them, metal digging into his thumb as he slides it through the hole.

"Gonna kill me, Sam," Paul says, irony lacing the words but Sam doesn't really pay attention, too busy undoing the fly of his jeans and pushing Paul's clothes down. Sam takes a moment to memorize the sight of Paul's dick, long and hard and jutting up to the right. He runs his fingers briefly on the underside of Paul's sac, smirks at the sharp intake of breath, then grips his shaft hard and tugs. With his free hand he reaches and grabs a palmful of Paul's ass, pulls him closer with it until Sam can feel the wetness of precome against his hip.

"Shit, yeah-- _shit_ ," Paul's saying, a trail of curses falling from his mouth, and Sam doesn't take the time to think, just presses their lips together. Paul groans in surprise, one hand clenching the back of Sam's neck, and Sam takes the opportunity to slide into Paul's mouth, the taste of the lingering warmth of liquor instant on his tongue. He speeds up his strokes, grips Paul's cock a little tighter as he jerks him off. It hits him hard, the thought of what Paul would sound like when he loses it, what he'd feel like as he comes in Sam's hand. It invades his mind and Sam keeps replaying it over and over, the want--the _need_ \--growing stronger with each repeat.

Sam doesn't have to wait long. He can feel it in the way Paul's grasp on him tightens, in the way Paul's hips thrust frantically into his hand, and then Paul releases a grunt that Sam swallows whole. His fingers clench into Sam's side, his other hand curling into Sam's hair and pulling--a hard, sharp tug that makes him swear into Paul's mouth, eyes watering up. Paul tenses, then comes, jizz spurting hot and sticky against Sam's stomach.

Releasing his grip on Sam's hair, Paul moves his head down, nose pressing against Sam's collar bone for a brief second before he looks back at Sam. _Fucked out looks good on him_ , is the first thing Sam can think.

Sam grabs his belt, intent on ridding himself of his jeans, but then Paul's hands are on his own and pulling at them. Sam looks at him, sees a smirk on Paul's face and finds himself smirking back as Paul pulls the leather through the buckle, and then through the loops of Sam's pants. He lets it clatter to the floor, and then his fingers are popping the button and sliding down the zipper, before his hand slides into Sam's underwear. Sam hisses, because _shit_. He was able to ignore the need of his body while getting Paul off, but Paul's hand acts like a trigger, arousal thrumming back in his veins, pure and twice as strong as before.

His cock practically throbs as Paul wraps his hand around it, and all Sam can do is push back into the grip, eyes clenching shut.

" _Fuck_ , oh god. Oh god, yeah--"

Sam practically gasps it as he grips the edge of the bar, fingers curling into the cheap wood, head tossed back. Paul takes the opportunity to suck at his neck, wet teeth gliding against his skin before being replaced with warm, chapped lips. It doesn't take long before he can feel his balls growing tight, and maybe Sam should be embarrassed but right now he doesn't even care, just gives in to his orgasm, shooting off in his boxers and Paul's hand.

He's still coming down from it when Paul removes his hand, globs of white sticking to it. Catching Sam's eye and then keeping the contact, Paul moves his hand to his mouth, same smirk spread out on his lips that Sam's seen all night, but now it looks impossibly filthy. Sam's cock gives one last jerk at the image of Paul's tongue licking his jizz from his hand, and Sam wants to moan as he sucks more of it into his mouth. Paul keeps licking and tasting until his hand is clean and for a brief second Sam just wants to do it all again, wants to watch the show once more.

Paul pulls up his pants, fixes them again, then bends down and holds out Sam's belt. Sam takes it with a brief smile, slides it through the loops of his jeans while Paul tugs his shirt back on. It's been a while since he's had to decide what's appropriate conversation after exchanging handjobs.

"So, hey," Paul says as Sam's slipping on his button down.

Sam looks up, biting his lip. "Yeah?"

"Another hour or so 'til curfew." Paul shrugs and leans against the bar. "Got some chips and a deck of cards in the back. If you've got nothin' better to do--might as well make it three for three. I can give you a ride later, if ya want." He grins a little, dirty in a way that makes the innuendo clear, and Sam feels new want curling deep in his stomach.

Sam considers it, like he actually needs to think about it at all, and then sits down on the stool once more.

"Yeah, okay."


End file.
